


Blink

by Gracious_Anne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Canon Divergence - The Great Game, M/M, Moriarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2011-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:11:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gracious_Anne/pseuds/Gracious_Anne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strapped and wired with Moriarty's bomb, John is left in the open streets, while Sherlock must race against time to save him. Based off the rumor John blinked SOS at Sherlock in the Great Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

Sherlock waited, impatiently, in 221b for John to come back from the market with beans and milk. He tossed John's pistol idly from hand to hand. Mrs. Hudson had stolen the bullets from it he had surmised when he picked it up to target the wall again that afternoon. He wasn't so bored now, in the middle of a case like this with three people saved and one old woman dead, but still. He'd like to shoot something to stem the business of his brain.

The Vermeer painting had been a bit of a throw off, he would admit, but he had figured it out before there ever was a call from the crying little boy. Yet, there was that thing on the edge of his brain that made him sit up straighter in his high back chair, milking the fire for a rhythm and the tossing gun for a beat to end the case. There was that last pip to wait for. Sherlock hated waiting. For John or for Moriarty.

The pink phone lay on the armrest, silent. He wished Moriarty would ring soon, Lestrade had given up on calling his real mobile hours ago and the pink phone wouldn't stop vibrating now with Lestrade's texts. It didn't do him much good, staring at the pink phone, willing it to ring with the number blocked. After another 10 minutes of sitting hunkered down in the chair in front of the fire, Sherlock decided John had given up his solid bed for the night to sleep at Sarah's, again instead of coming back to the cold apartment. Typical. Sherlock thought about texting him about the beans (at least they should come home back to the apartment, he for once was feeling famished), but he decided that wasn't quite so interesting as waiting up John to come back with a crick in his neck and a throbbing pain in his shoulder and surmising what piece of furniture he slept on.

He laid his head back on the chair and let himself slump towards the left corner. It felt good to get some sleep while he waited for John come back or for the next suicide bomber to ring, crying. The unwilling, scared mouthpiece of that criminal mastermind Moriarty. The crying was understandable from normal people, Sherlock thought, their thoughts running wild and helter-skelter through what-if's and thinking about their sons with runny noses, and how their families would take their deaths if the police didn't find them. Wild emotions never helped them survive. Sherlock, however, lived off their adrenaline filled nightmares, and he had solved their puzzles for them in record time. Emotions had never stopped him before. Not ever.

He closed his eyes thinking Moriarty would call him soon, through yet another voice. The moment of realization always excited him when they called. Of course, his reaction horrified John but Sherlock knew John understood what he was getting at. You needed that distance in order to solve the game, kill the enemy, save the person still breathing at the other end of the line. So it was unexpected, even surprising when the pink phone rang with a number not blocked and one that wasn't Lestrade.

Sherlock nearly had fallen asleep on the chair when that bloody pink phone rang. Moriarty had a funny sense of humor, calling after business hours. He answered it rather blearily.

"Sarah?"

"Sherlock? That's you isn't it?" It was indeed Sarah, and there was worry in her voice.

"Yes, yes it is." Sherlock said, but

"Sherlock, John was going to come over and—"

Sherlock interrupted sitting up, wide-awake now.

"He hasn't turned up?"

"No, he hasn't."

Sherlock glanced at the clock in the kitchen, 8 o'clock. John should have made it to Sarah's by now, or to Baker street even with the nearest supermarket just around the corner.

"Sarah," he said as nicely as possible when he didn't have any caffeine and his mouth was dry as leaves.

"I'm sure he's on his way, probably out buying a couple frozen dinners..or flowers…something. No need to worry."

"Sherlock," said Sarah softly, her tone contrite. "He sent me a text."

Sherlock sighed. "What was it?" He could hear her hesitate on the other end.

"It's just dashes and dots," She said finally.

Sherlock's feet came off the chair and planted themselves on the floor.

He spoke slowly and distinctly into the mouthpiece. "What are they?"

"Just dots and dashes."

"Tell me what they are."

" Dot, dot, dot.. dash, dash, dash.. dot, dot, dot."

Dots and dashes. Sherlock let out a breath. What could John be doing?

"Could it be an SOS?"

The thought had crossed his mind. "Yes, it could be that's Morse code for SOS."

"Why didn't he send it to you then?"

Sherlock grimaced inwardly. "I haven't been answering my phone."

"Oh." Sarah didn't push it. Good for her.

"How did you get this number?"

"I called Detective Lestrade," said Sarah. She hoped he would offer answers straight away.

"Ah."

The phone clicked and beeped in his ear. He looked at the screen: it said blocked. His heart raced. Moriarty. At last.

"Sarah I'm going to have to call you later." He hung up without even waiting for a reply.

He slide his thumb across the mobile screen and waited only a split second to say into the mouthpiece.

"Yes." He could barely keep the adrenaline fueled excitement out of his voice.

Another awful second and the voice on the other end, again, not Moriarty, but another probably younger man's voice said: "Evening."

Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, his body electrified.

"John?"

"Nice turn out this." It was John. He wasn't crying like the rest. He sounded under distress definitely, his voice clipped and devoid of any emotion as he read out the words on a pager.

Sherlock knew he couldn't answer him but he still said:"John, what the hell?"

"Funny that you picked the pool… where little Carl powers died." Sherlock heard a slight shaky intake of breath.

"I stopped his heart." Sherlock closed his eyes, his mind on overdrive, listening intently for sounds in the background to John's voice.

"I can stop John Watson's too."

A strange tug at his conscience, that line. A bit poetic and less angry than Moriarty had been with the other suicide bombers. He sounded excited, like this was more than another step in the game. Sherlock hadn't seen this coming after all.

"What—What would you like for me to have him say next?"

"Gottle o gear… Gottle o gear." John repeated, humorlessly in Sherlock's ear.

"Stop it, just stop it." Sherlock hissed. He stopped himself before he went any further. He could hear, no feel John's unconscious gape. He wasn't really talking to John, John knew that, but it didn't help things. Better to address Moriarty even though he desperately wanted to address John. Oh, how he wanted to. He needed to hear that he was alright. He sounded fine, militarily collected and under stress, but fine.

"I have the missile plans," said Sherlock urgently, hoping that would get Moriarty's attention. No response through John.

"I solved the last case," he continued. "What more do you want?" he asked.

Still nothing.  
He gritted his teeth.

"Why John Watson?" He knew he was pressing his luck, but he could try. He wanted a reaction.

He heard John inhale softly. John was waiting for answer too.

A high piercing noise filled his ear and he grimaced at it. The last pip in the series of five a long and almost mournful sound ringing in his ears. Moriarty hanged up on him. No information this time, no clues, not yet. John was the last bomber. That was all Sherlock needed to know. This had gone from a game of cards to a game of chess. Moriarty had John, strapped up to a bomb, with a timer ticking and no case to solve. It was personal now. His question why John had touched a nerve. Moriarty would be handling this bomber differently.

But John was clever. Sherlock knew that, and he smiled at the thought of John hurriedly sending Sarah the SOS. Good man, John, he knew what to do in distress. The fact that Moriarty had chosen John his colleague to be his next voice, a little reminder of how close he was 221b, to Sherlock struck him to the core.

This was different. This was new. Dangerous. His mind raced for answers he couldn't conceive off yet. He felt himself caring, wishing he could have told John to stay, to sit and have a cold, safe dinner in the apartment with him. He shoved that feeling away, down deep away from the surface of data and calculations. It had never helped him before, it wouldn't help now. Caring wouldn't do. And still. And still that tiny bit of guilt and worry ingrained itself into him like a parasite and wouldn't let go. Moriarty had chosen his next pawn well.


	2. John

This was not the sort of night John had envisioned. What he wanted was a quiet night on the sofa, watching bad telly with Sarah, or maybe a bland night on the town if they had been feeling up to it. At that moment, standing at the edge of the fountain, filled with ever flowing water for some bizarre reason that frigidly cold night, he would have given the month's rent and a year of sleeping on that damn sofa for a sense of normalcy right now. He stood out a little from the crowd, who passed him by nonchalantly with an odd look here or there. The imaginary limp in his leg was itching, and soon trembling if no one would let him sit down a moment. He didn't know exactly where the snipers were on the roofs but he could guess their locations.

He kept his hands in the warm suede colored parka pockets to keep them from freezing, his left wrapped around the pager Moriarty had thrust into his hands as his thugs had put the heavy bomb vest on him.

At least the parka kept him warm. The vest was too heavy. It reminded him of the bulletproof vests they wore in Afghanistan. He tried shifting ever so slightly on his feet to take off pressure off his leg. It was definitely throbbing now. It hadn't hurt for weeks. Not since he had run down the streets of London with Sherlock that first time in search of a serial killer. How that had thrilled him, to feel vaguely useful, even healthy again. Moriarty had turned it on him. That weakness, that need for adventure, to live a life ordinary men could not dream of. He had lived that life for a little while, a few months of nightmares and anger spurts in the supermarket. Maybe he was tricking himself in believing he was important, an ex-army medic with a few post-traumatic symptoms and blog. That bloody blog. A few words in space had made him important to a criminal mastermind.

John closed his eyes, wincing at his stupid leg. Why was this cropping up now?

Another thought took hold, one that even Sherlock hadn't been able to guess."Why John Watson?"

He was nothing. He knew that. Compared to Sherlock Holmes he was gnat.

And yet, Moriarty had made the connection between him and John all the palpable. It was a strange thought, that Sherlock would at last, apparently, have a friend, a flat mate who lived in the same space as he did and did not go insane or bolt without paying his half of the rent. Maybe he was too decent, here, in the real world where human bodies were not used as cover against shells and rocks were not landmines. He was trying to make for his part in that world of dust and blood, he knew that, his therapist had known that. He hid underneath plain clothes and nights on the sofa, and silly things like going to the circus, but was still all there. Waiting in his dreams to find him, sink its claws in him, and bury him. The darkness. The madness.

And there Sherlock was, a brilliant shining piece of darkness in an ordinary world of cadavers and ink cavorting around that science lab weeks ago like lunatic. That fantastic, wonderful idiot. He changed things. He knew how to turn the world askew, upside down and see details no one else can see, details that reminded John of a desert sun and the tracks of a tank somehow. Perhaps it was the oddness of it all, the noises that sound not be there, the thud of shells or the trial of blood in that landscape, odd like the details of a murder or of war.

A puff of colder air whisked passed him. His eyes snapped, the sounds of the fountain seeming to roar in his ears. He stared at the people walked briskly passed him, heading home, out to the cinema, or the night shift. How did they not see his strange predicament, the little wires curling out of the parka just so, blinking. Perhaps this how Moriarty planned it. A bit of dangerous fun involved. A policeman might see him, and ask him what he was doing standing up there on the fountain for so long, maybe even about the wires. The sniper on the roof would shoot him down before he could say a word, and everything would come to pieces. He couldn't help but think about the water from the fountain mucking up the remains of the street after the event, and Sherlock, walking through it, grave. Stone-faced even.

He shivered. The cold was getting through his adrenaline now, through the heat of that awful moment went Moriarty shoved him up on the fountain and placed seemingly dead pager in his hands, and smiled.

The fountain hadn't turned on until Moriarty had played that last pip over loud speakers in the square. The crowds had looked around in moment, confused, not knowing that sound was for John Watson and him alone. John knew, just knew that Sherlock hadn't heard the pip like he did. And it shook him to the bone. Moriarty was playing with him like a Pavlov dog. Testing him.

"What's going to break you John?" He had said, holding him in a cold, reptilian-like handshake as he put the pager in John's unshaken hand. An odd question to ask a potential suicide bomber, considering John's current position and thought process but John had heard so many theories and processes earlier today he didn't blink at even that question. Moriarty, for all his calculations, didn't know what is was to be a soldier, how old instincts die hard and how nightmares could keep you alive sometimes.

Right now, however, John had to keep his heart rate down, and figure out a subtle way not to look like he was freezing to death with bomb under his clothes. And he was tired, damn it. Geniuses could live off air and a bit of juice, but he needed some coffee and now.

He hoped Sarah was alright. Sherlock would have gotten the SOS before Moriarty's lovely little phone call. Sherlock would find him. He was sure of it. He shivered again, and edged closer to the rim of the fountain. He could feel a lone dot squared on his neck. He lifted his head in the direction of the sniper and winked. He was sure none of the other victims had done that. He wasn't going to let Moriarty see him scared.

He closed his eyes, centering himself against the crowds, against the roaring fountain behind him, and somehow felt alright about the whole thing. As if, oddly, he had been through this before. At the same time his stomach tightened and he wished he could just sit down.

He opened his eyes and immediately bit back a cry. He wasn't on a London street anymore. It was still frigid, his breath becoming wisps and twirls of smoke as he took in the scene before him. It looked like something out of the history books. Dust and stone littered the street. Men clothed in long flowing robes, their beards long, walked down the street their hands tied behind their backs. Where was he? The air smelt like a desert landscape with sheep and goats and incense.

A hand grasped his shoulder and turned him about. The hand was black as night, covered in ashes or grease though its original color was white. The hand was dirty as the rest of him, but John could still see the outline of the man's face, his eyes emboldened by the ash, John thought. His mouth fell open. The eyes were the same.

The same as what, his mind screamed, searching for an answer.

"Are you alright?" the man asked.

"Yes," John said automatically.

"Go back to the fortress. I'll meet you there," the man told him.

John nodded blindly; the man's voice seemed comforting even in its urgency.

The man turned and ran off down the street, towards the line of robed, bearded men.

John turned and stumbled down the street. He felt sick. He didn't really know where he was going exactly but he know the general direction. He glanced down at his hands and stopped.

His hands were covered in ash. Human ash. He knew it, somehow. His stomach dropped.

He closed his eyes and blinked them hard.

London careened back into his senses, and he wobbled on the edge of the fountain. He nearly took his hands out of his pockets. He gulped down cold air. He was here, in London. Not in Afghanistan or whatever that had been. Perhaps, a hallucination or some regressed belated version of his PTSD flaring, he thought. Fine time to happen now.

He shoved his hands deeper into the parka's pockets and stared wide-eyed at the city lights trying not to hyperventilate. Whatever that had been, whoever he had been, that was not real. This was real.

It was in that moment the pager beeped in his pocket. He swore at it.


	3. Pink

Sherlock never let go of the pink mobile as he paced Lestrade's tiny office. His head hurt with all the wild thoughts running around in his brain like pollen, swirling and sticking to everything. Lestrade was about to make him bloody well sit down and tie him to the chair just to make him stop, but he bit back the words behind his teeth and simply coughed. Politely. Sherlock snapped at him.

"What?" he said, his tone frigid.

"You need to relax," Lestrade told him. But much to his surprise Sherlock did not give him a scathing look, but just continued pacing, silent. He hadn't said hardly a word since he came to the police, the mobile in hand like a sign of surrender. Lestrade didn't know what he wanted exactly. Sherlock had never come to them before with a case. He thought Sherlock was giving himself something to look at other than that awful wallpaper at Baker Street.

"Sherlock," he tried again, "what can I do?" That even sounded sincere to Lestrade. Sherlock noted it. He stopped pacing and looked at Lestrade, weary, slumped, his head tilted to the side, the phosphorescent glow lighting half of his face. He was paler than a corpse in that light. Moriarty had thrown wrench in Sherlock's clockwork brain, and its name, if they were honest, was John Watson. Sherlock let out a sigh, glancing at the clock, his fingers in his hair now.

"Could you tell me where the coffee is?"

"I'll get one for you."

Sherlock didn't say thank you, but it was in his posture, his stance. Lestrade understood.

Sherlock waited until Lestrade went out of the office before sitting down in his chair. He didn't know why he was so exhausted. John had only been missing for maybe an hour after Moriarty made the first call, and he knew that some imaginary clock was ticking away in Moriarty's head, checking off seconds of John Watson's life. He just wanted another puzzle. He didn't think Moriarty would give him one this time. Being bored would do that to you-make you unpredictable.

He was just going have wait and hope those few moments of sound bustling in the background on the mobile beneath John's soft breathing had been water. He knew London, better than the pigeons even (as Anderson had joked once). He should be able to hear the noises and know where John was.

The mobile vibrated in his hand. He didn't even look down at it. He knew whose voice he would hear at other end. He took a deep breath and let the burning sensation in his stomach cool a moment. John was going to sound exhausted. It was only to be expected: practically living off adrenaline for the last few hours, on edge for so long.

"Yes?" he said into the mouthpiece.

He heard John's silent frustration on the other end. Then a quiet exhalation, and a muffled rustle—a heavy coat perhaps, Moriarty didn't want his last victim to get unduly uncomfortable before the big bang-against a roaring white noise. Water? It had to be.

"Oopsy," said Moriarty in John's voice, cold silent resignation that this was going to end badly. It sounded nearly comical. "This is not the find John Watson Hot Line."

"Moriarty," Sherlock said matter-a-fact.

"Oh. Good," John said blankly. Sherlock listened intently for anything besides the roar of water underneath his voice. There was barely anything, the slight sound of traffic.

"You know my name," continued John, sounding as if he was about to go cross-eyed from exhaustion. Sherlock rolled his eyes towards the heavens. Moriarty had to be playful.

"Yes?"

"You sound tired Sherlock Holmes, what's the matter?"  
Sherlock bit his lip. "You haven't given me the next puzzle yet."

"And that bothers you?"

"Of course."

"You want another murder to solve?"

"Sometimes, but at the moment I would like a strong cup of coffee and John Watson in one piece."

"Honesty. Good, Sherlock. Though you aren't afraid of me yet. Such honesty must dealt out in small doses to one's nemesis."

"I had no idea I had nemesis as of yet."

There was a long pause where Sherlock and John waited. Sherlock had asked for a reaction and by hell he was going get one.

"Nemeses come in all shapes and sizes, dear."

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. "Prove it."

"Not going to beg then?"

"No."

"Then you better run along home then, Sherlock."

Sherlock inhaled sharply as he realized what that could mean. He heard the same from John.

The call cut off sharply before Sherlock could do anything. Lestrade stood in the doorway of the office now, coffee in hand. The exchanged glance between them made the situation perfectly clear.

The mobile pinged in his hand and uploaded a photo that only took him a split second to recognize. The mantle of 221b, littered with books and loose paper, his skull in the center grinning at him like Cheshire cat.  
" Call the Bomb squad now," he shouted at Lestrade, already on his feet and half way across the room.

"Why? Did he blow something up already?" God, Sherlock hoped not. Not this time.

There was no time. Sherlock was mercurial, sprinting towards the exit sign above the stairwell. He spat the words out as he slammed open the exit door, a seed of weakness stirring in his stomach. The words tasted acidic on his tongue, a hint of disbelief in his voice that he hoped Lestrade would not hear.

"Mrs. Hudson."


	4. Skull

Sherlock flagged down a cab in record time, and willed it to go faster, he bit his lip to keep from cursing the cabbie who was doing his best to keep the cab intact by slowing down a fraction while he turned corners, flying down back streets at Sherlock's indication.

Moriarty had wasted no time going for the jugular. Sherlock knew his own reaction, speeding down alleyways and agitating the cabbie, would give Moriarty another reason to believe he had some human feeling towards his flat, his landlady. Moriarty was more unpredictable then he had first deducted. Guessed more like it, if he was feeling venerable and self-destructive, which he was.

Another calculation hit him, and he dialed Mycroft on the pink mobile.

He heard Mycroft's brisk hello on the other end and immediately cut him off.

"Mycroft, it's me. Now don't talk. Just listen."

He heard Mycroft lean back in his chair and uncap a pen. He was ready.

"I need you to find Harriet Watson and put her in a safe house as soon as possible."

Mycroft understood him instantly.

" And what about Mrs. Hudson?" Mycroft asked, the scribbling of his pen audible in Sherlock's ears. "Shall I give her sanctuary as well?"

Sherlock set his mouth in a firm line. "If she's still alive," he said, his voice cold, as he was determined not letting his voice shake.

Mycroft coughed sympathetically. He never missed his brother's masked emissions of feeling.

"Very well," said Mycroft, gently, "I have no doubt you'll find her, Sherlock. And"—he added, softly –"John as well."

"Just get Harry Watson," Sherlock replied, feeling fear grip his heart and give a violent squeeze at the mention of John. He hung up without saying goodbye. He never did. It was unnecessary with his brother.

"Could you drive any slower?" he asked the driver, his voice dangerously low. The cabbie did the right thing and sped up a fraction, making the potholes in the long dark alleyway all the more painful as they darted towards Baker Street. Sherlock knew he was letting his emotions affect his thinking but at the moment he actually did not care. Mrs. Hudson had been the closest person in his life besides Mycroft who understood him for what he was. She had never minded his antics and experiments, or his love of criminal murders. Of course, she drew the line when he shoot bullets into her wall and left the smiley face on the wallpaper, but she had enough heart to let him clutter up her apartment and postpone paying the rent every one and while. She wasn't the most useful or the smartest woman in the world, but she was enough. Just like John. Enough to make him lose the mask he wore.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. He hadn't sleep in 20 hours. Usually he would plow through for days on end when he was on cases and sleep until three in the afternoon, but something about this case made him weary. Moriarty seemed to be pushing all right buttons to begin tearing him down.

By the time the cab finally pulled up to 221b Baker Street, it was clear Moriarty hadn't blown up the building. Not that he really would have. He would have wanted Sherlock there to see every speck of dust, every shard of glass as the building exploded. Sherlock's only fear was to find a body inside. Her body.

He dashed from the cab, throwing bills behind him at the cabbie. There was no time. Every second he wasted to confirm that Mrs. Hudson was not dead were seconds wasted on John.

He found the front door, as he had predicted unlocked. He ran down the hallway, noting the place was not trashed. Moriarty was not a thief, nor one to make a mess without a huge boom and a lot of ruckus. He rammed his shoulder into Mrs. Hudson's flat door in his impatience, his last minute idea that there might be a fingerprint on something, anything, even something as obvious as the doorknob.

Sherlock rushed inside, twirled around looking for her.

"Mrs. Hudson?" He shouted.

Nothing. There was nothing, no sign of struggle, no blood.

He darted up the stairs to 221b, feeling his heart race, and found at last a piece of information.

A piece of paper to be exact, stuck into an eye socket in his skull as it lay, sideways in the middle of the floor. It was bright pink construction paper, and the one corner of it bloodied. Mrs. Hudson's blood, he knew it. Just a little, enough that that paper had soaked it up and a drop had trialed down the middle of it he saw as he inspected it.

There was nothing else on the paper: just the tiny bit of evidence that Mrs. Hudson had bled.

The pink mobile hummed in his overcoat pocket. The number was blocked. Not Mycroft then.

He slide his thumb across the screen and held the phone to his ear, hoping, hoping that…

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and forced himself to focus on the noises besides her voice, tears and saliva choking her words, listening for indicators, another roar of a fountain.

"Yes, I'm here," he said quietly, trying to sound reassuring and yet not too feeling since it was really Moriarty he was talking to.

"Did you like… the pink paper," repeated Mrs. Hudson, her voice clogged with fear though she was trying desperately to stay calm. To show that she was made of stronger stuff like she had with her black-hearted husband. "I thought it would amuse you. Get you into the game."

"Why is she crying?" asked Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson gasped into the receiver on the other end. She was relieved, he could tell, that he had surmised that much. That she would not cry even when strapped to a bomb.

"I think I broke her leg. It is a bit..nasty. Too bad there isn't a doctor around."

Sherlock swallowed. A broken leg hurt like hell and without attention to an older woman the effects could be fatal.

"What do you want?" He said slowly, clutching the pink paper.

"I want to play," said Mrs. Hudson weeping. "You have two hours."

A double pip then rang in his ear.

\-----------------------------------------

John shivered. The temperature had dropped. He put the phone back in the parka pocket, his hand shaking. The street was nearly deserted now with a few stragglers, no one to see him. His body ached and his leg began to burn again. He bit his tongue and willed himself to not think of the man's voice from the dream. He tried to shake it off, but all he could think of was the voice had been Sherlock's. His mind told him that something was happening, again and he didn't know what. It terrified him.

He grasped for memories and thoughts that were happy, calm. He found serenity his mind's eye view of Mrs. Hudson: calm, predictable, handing him a cup of tea and commenting on how Sherlock didn't eat enough. Most importantly, safe. Sherlock had probably just gotten a cup of coffee from Mrs. Hudson at that very moment in 221b. He couldn't believe that she wouldn't be safe. Mycroft wouldn't allow anything to happen to her anyway. He clung to that thought as the bomb tied to his chest began to feel heavier than it had in the last hour suddenly and he felt himself sag. The cold made his teeth set on edge and yet, he couldn't find the strength to brace himself against it. The roar of the fountain filled his mind, and….

"Hi."

John bolted upright as the sound of Moriarty's high-pitched greeting rang in his ears. Moriarty stood next to him on the fountain, hands in his trouser pockets, no sign of a coat anywhere. His mother must have been a snake or something, John thought, only something reptilian could be that at home in this cold. Moriarty took a deep breath of the night air.

John stiffened and stared straight ahead. No weakness. He would not look that man in the eye. The gum underneath his left shoe deserved more respect than that murderer.

"Having fun yet?"

John didn't answer Moriarty. He was going to not give him the pleasure of hearing his voice crack, again.

"Oh," said Moriarty, answering his own question, "not so much." He made a face. Moriarty switched tactics in an instant, his tone dangerous and reckless, close to the edge.

"No, I wouldn't think so. Why would you be? The clock hasn't begun ticking yet."

John flinched. The clock hadn't started yet? What was Moriarty getting at now?

He's bored, John thought, remembering what Sherlock had said about him. That made him more dangerous than ever.

"How about a few tears though?" Moriarty asked a huge grin plastered on his face. "Our audience loves it so. It makes them listen. "

John stared blankly at the streetlamp across the road, as it seemed to glow ominously bright.

Moriarty leaned in close and whispered in his ear. "Would you shed a tear for your dear sister? I can find her Johnny boy. It would be too easy."

John Watson snapped. He took the man, by the lapels bringing him an inch away from his own face. Moriarty only grinned, seeming to love this new development, curiously light and unresisting in John's grip. John held the man up on his toes and stared at him, feeling the sniper's laser focus targeted at him and he didn't care, no, not one bit.

"Let me be perfectly clear," he said slowly and distinctly, feeling the anger bubble up inside him "you touch her in any way and I'll—"

"I'll be dead," finished Moriarty, utterly bored. "I know."

John shook his head once. He gave Moriarty a grim smile.

"No," he said lowly, "I flay the skin off your back with kitchen knife and wait until you beg for it."

Moriarty actually looked surprised. "John, you have quite an imagination," he said, almost admiringly, taking hold of John's hands and squeezed them to the point of breaking until John winced and let him go. Moriarty stepped back, his voice nearly lost in the roar of the fountain.

"Too bad you will never be able fulfill your fantasy."

John exhaled sharply, his blood boiling. He wasn't cold anymore. Funny how a mastermind could mention your little sister and suddenly all self-preservation leaves you. He took up staring at the streetlight again.

"See you in a little while, John," shouted Moriarty, leaping off the fountain edge and strolling off out of his peripheral vision. "I'll want some tears then."

Then Moriarty was gone, leaving John feeling alert and so alive. The blood pounded in his veins. He didn't know why he had stupidly threatened Moriarty, it had just come to him. Torture and killing did not come naturally to him, not like that anyway, but somewhere he supposed was that instinct to protect, to preserve. He wanted to run to Harry's apartment. Make sure she was alright. His hand gripped the infernal mobile in his pocket. How he wished he could call her now. Even to hear her gripe about never calling him, never answering her comments on the blog, it would ease the fear encircling him now, waiting for him to succumb to Moriarty.

His mind sailed back to Mrs. Hudson. Poor Mrs. Hudson. He willed himself to believe that she was not the next murder in this awful series of cat and mouse. But still, the thought remained that Moriarty was playing Sherlock like his violin, just waiting for him to find his landlady dead, waiting for his next logical move.

He continued staring the streetlight a moment before he realized, a sliver of hope darting into his throat, that there was a security camera on it. Mycroft. Sherlock's brother had found him once before, he could find him again, if he was looking. And John knew he must be. But how to get his attention on a dark deserted street? He couldn't move and he certainly couldn't yell for help.

He could only hope someone watching him on that camera would notice his face, his eyes. He had been trained for situations like this. For in the instance of video ransoms, one would blink, incessantly, a message in Morse code. Of course, he wondered if the camera would even pick up such nuanced details at such a distance. He could only hope Moriarty wasn't watching him on it.

He took a deep breath, and began blinking out the universal message he had sent Sarah only a few hours ago. S.O.S.

Dot dot dot.

dashdashdash

Dot dot dot.

He was about to start it again when something caught his eye, something that sparkled like Christmas lights. He turned his head away from the camera, and saw the lights. Another bomb.

Mrs. Hudson was standing, shakily on the other side of the street. A naked bomb vest around her chest blinked incessantly. Moriarty had not given her coat.

John Watson swore inwardly. He could tell by her stance that she was not alright. She was crying. She looked terrified.

His heart sunk. Sherlock had not gotten to 221b in time. Now it was probably a matter of time before Harry joined them. He hoped to God he was wrong, but if Moriarty had got kind Mrs. Hudson then he was done playing games. He was ready to blow them all.

All so he could see Sherlock fall to pieces as they burned.

John mouthed the words: "It's alright" to Mrs. Hudson, and as she nodded her understanding he turned back to the security camera and began to blink, fervently now, a message he hoped would reach Sherlock in time. He could only hope it did.


	5. Blogger

John Watson was never a good writer in school. Not really. Sure, he made the grades, enough to go to medical school, but they never had that spark that could ignite imaginations in his peers and teachers. But as he stood there on the fountain, shivering in the rising temperature, he knew half the reason he was there, strapped up to a bomb, was because he was a blogger. No, not simply a blogger-the blogger-according to Moriarty and Sherlock. His therapist had been right about that one thing, if anything at all. Writing was cathartic, a release for him. And where Sherlock Holmes was concerned the writing sparked a bit of imagination and creative vigor he had tucked away, long ago.

Writing had in part made a lunatic as clever as Sherlock, notice him. Of course Moriarty had tested them both in the lab with his underwear showing and his awkward behavior, and of course Moriarty had deduced John's subtle note of loyalty when he didn't let Sherlock fall completely on his face when he hardly acknowledged Moriarty's presence in the lab.

He could have sworn it had got colder since Mrs. Hudson had shown up across the way, shivering like a leaf now, in pain but remaining as steady as she could. Why Moriarty broke her leg when there were better, more exciting ways to get at him and Sherlock? Harry came to mind. His sister he knew would be more interesting to Moriarty. So why did he go after Mrs. Hudson? John bit his lip as he felt his legs falling asleep. He shifted slowly, noticing the sharp shooters had begun to target Mrs. Hudson now. Moriarty must be coming for another visit.

The street was ridiculously quiet. Too quiet. John blinked.

Lights darted across the pavement. A search light. The mere ghostly shadows of human beings faltered under a search light. He could smell Afghanistan: the blood, the dust, the cold unearthly stink of remains. But how? He looked down at his hands and saw the ashes, human ashes once more. They did not shake.

He blinked rapidly, trying to make the images disappear. He wiped his hands on the parka, only to realize, his hands were clean. Did he just have some sort of posttraumatic episode? Again? What was causing it? He glanced at Mrs. Hudson, and nearly called out to her. She was on the ground, lying on her back, silent and still. Moriarty, the bastard, hands in his pockets, stood over her like a lion checking his fallen prey. Moriarty caught John's gaze and gave him a sidelong smirk.

"Problems, John?" he asked over the roar of the fountain, and walked, no, almost skipped over the cobblestones to John.

John continued to stare at the still form of Mrs. Hudson as Moriarty darted in and out of his peripheral vision like a malignant puppet.

Moriarty got on top of the fountain, turned and watched John stare at Mrs. Hudson for a second before taking a firm grip of the parka and pulling John back over the waters of the fountain so that he was on the edge, holding on to Moriarty and the bit of stone he could find under his feet.

Moriarty held John over the water with a mischievous mad look in his eye. It reminded him of Sherlock's look when he got the case with the serial killings, ecstatic, gleeful. It was a flicker of Sherlock in Moriarty's eyes.

"What if I let you fall?" said Moriarty into his ear. John strained away from him, disgusted, though there wasn't anything he could do anyway.

"Well," he said, "you and I would have some fun in hell."

And John, staring at Moriarty's back, feeling suddenly at peace, knowing exactly what he must do, followed him. He stepped down and paused with his right foot still awkwardly on the fountain but not quite, like he was playing a fatal form of freeze tag. The laser sights danced on the parka but nothing happened. Moriarty didn't turn around or raise his hand in a salute to fire. So without another thought, John Watson walked across the street before Moriarty could open his mouth to say a word. Moriarty gave him the most rewarding look of shock. John Watson smirked at him.

Psychosomatic limp and PTSD hallucinations be damned, he just surprised Moriarty. He filed this moment away to blog and post, if he did survive tonight.

 


	6. Enemy

John's feeling of euphoria dissipated when Moriarty's surprise turned into a card game façade, stony but full of annoyance. It was worth angering him more than annoying him John realized. Anger was easy, it might get you a slap in the face or a quick run to the emergency room, but annoyance, in that face, would end in devastation of whole cities. For that's where his true anger lay, under his annoyance.

"Brave, but very stupid, John." He huffed, and flicked a hand in the air signaling the sharp shooters. Bullets hit the ground inches away from John's feet. A warning.

But John didn't need a warning. He knew exactly how fast he could die, at any second. Why the show? Perhaps Moriarty was biding his time for something. But what? Playing cat and mouse with Sherlock?

Did you think I didn't have complete control? Have you noticed the people are gone? The street's pretty deserted yes? The snipers are still in place. The security camera is also still rolling for posterity even after your little show for Mycroft Holmes-his lips curled around that name—who has taken care of hiding your sister from me. Cheeky."

John couldn't help but let out a tiny sigh of relief. Unfortunately, Moriarty did not miss that slip.

"You were worried about her," Moriarty said quietly, "more worried about her than Mrs. Hudson here."

He was enjoying this, John thought. Moriarty twisted round to glance at her. John wanted to push him away from her, so his shadow would not fall across her. However, he held back, feeling the laser dots were somewhere floating on the back of his head, just waiting.

"She's not dead," John said. But even to him, a soldier, a doctor that sounded cold. She only looked unconscious from what he could see but he could be wrong. A twinge of guilt still hooked around his lungs as he looked down at her. Mrs. Hudson was a lovely woman, a bit batty at times, but she still loved John and Sherlock like her own sons. But Harriet would always be his sister. He had a right to worry about her. He hadn't spoken to her in a month.

"True," Moriarty answered. "But you forget the obvious."

John clenched his teeth. He was tired of games. He took a breath, long and slow, in and out before asking: "And what is that?"

"They still don't know where you are."

Such satisfaction in Moriarty's face.

"They will. Sherlock—"

"Sherlock will find you only if I let him."

John scoffed, feeling the anger rise in his chest.

"What, you'll move me to new location? You'll blow me up there when you get bored again. When you don't want to play this game of cat and mouse?"

A flash of teeth, Moriarty was enjoying this.

"I won't have to. You are already hidden."

John did not even try to hold back his humorless chuckle at that remark.

"Hidden from what? We're in the middle of a street. There's security cameras all around us. There's people buildings above us who have probably called Scotland Yard about Mrs. Hudson already."

Moriarty lowered his gaze, and stared at something. John realized he was staring at his hands. They weren't shaking, just balled into fists.

"Says John Watson. Says the man who sees things in the corners of his eyes. I'd trust my word John. I always deliver. Unlike Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty tilted his head slightly as if trying to gain another perspective.

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't know about your little episodes does he, John?"

Memories of his dream, his vision fills John's mind; his hands and forearms covered in ashes.

Moriarty didn't smile when John's gaze flickered to his hands. But that moment when John looked back up he knew that Moriarty has done something. Something that would make him wait until he saw Sherlock's face dumbfounded, to murder John Watson. He was playing with him. John knew that, but it never occurred to him that even his dreams, his stressed flashbacks could be triggered with a purpose. He shivered, not from the cold, when he saw Moriarty's cold blank stare, ticking off a series of psychological and biological triggers in his head. Checking off the list of John's secrets that he'd rather let lie.

When John didn't spasm or reply, Moriarty inclined his head. No more theatrics.

"It may have not occurred to you John," Moriarty began, pausing to glance as the blue lights of the bomb under the parka, "that I'm more powerful than your friend. I have connected that he could not imagine with his funny brain. I am in control here." The last words were thick with glee.

Moriarty gestured offhandedly at the fountain. "Take for instance the wishing well over there," he said, nearly skipping past John towards it. "It's off yeah?" He clapped twice, slowly.

Water gushed from the fountain, spurting awkwardly as it picked up pace.

John shook his head, disbelief in his face.

"Cheap trick. You knew exactly when the fountain would turn on. Or learned where the valves were."

Moriarty rubbed the back of his hand on his forehead, bemused.

"Interesting deduction, doctor. But not quite. And that's what I like about you—he scampered towards him again, hands back in their pockets, until he got too close to John for any sort of comfort, and yet John couldn't move—"you're the predictable one."

John waited as he took a breath.

"You're the predictable point in this whole game. All you have to do is suffer. No complicated word plays, no phone tag, no why's or but's. You're the victim John."

Moriarty was so close to him John thought he could see every shadow of each sleepless night Moriarty had spent putting this thing together, feel the electric energy crawling underneath his skin.

"Ready to suffer John?"

John stared at his ear in response. He licked his lips and tried his best to keep his voice from cracking when he did speak.

"So you have control of the street?"

Moriarty's smile was very smug.

"It's still a street, then," said John.

"In a way, yes."

"So how I'm invisible?"

John's vision was filled instantly with an obscene amount of light. Moriarty had just glanced at the night sky, just glanced, and there was only light. This wasn't a hallucination. Which in any other case would be blessing, a comfort but this-

John only wished it was.

He covered his face against the insane pulsing glow of light and waited for it to pass, if it ever would.

Standing on the fountain John had occupied mere moments ago, Sherlock realized had never had any arch-enemies until now. Not really. Mycroft did not count. He was his brother after all, and he meant well. He cared. People had always loathed him, hated him, all throughout school, hating the hyper-active boy who knew all their secrets, all their wants and hidden desires. But that was fine, he got used to it after awhile and it became something he used, manipulated. He used it to cope. As long as someone hated him he knew he was doing the right thing. It was better than love. Love passed and faded. But the need to hate Sherlock Holmes, the need to call him a freak, the desire to bash his face in the gutter when no-one was looking drove him to need it more than anything else. But they were the horde, the masses, the public who never sought to understand him and hate him. Whenever someone did somehow understand him, they only pitied him and that was worse than their hate.

So Sherlock found himself always looking for an arch-enemy. The single individual who would learn to hate him, love him, wish he was dead and yet always come back for more. The need scared him, and yet he still wanted it. It dogged him.

So when Sherlock Holmes found himself with an arch-enemy, at last, at last, he was exhilarated and absolutely terrified.

And his name was Jim Moriarty.

Oh, he had dreamt of the day. Calculating every possible schoolboy who could have that potential as he waited until recess to recede into the masses again. And now he was finally here. Bombs and serial killers and everything bloody and malicious.

The thing was he never counted on John.

There had never been anyone like John. John who didn't pity him, John who didn't put up with him, not always. He had never counted on caring for anyone besides himself. And even he was expendable in the end. If it really came down to it, he was, compared to the masses, who hated him, who loathed him, who put up with criminals in their own way for their own pitiful good.

But John. John was different. At that moment when Sherlock was standing in the middle of the street where John had stood (by the fountain, roaring happily in his ears, of course, it had been obvious) Sherlock knew that if he could find John alive, everything would be alright somehow. John was long gone now, hence Sherlock's mind raced through the data. Moriarty had taken John and Mrs. Hudson to a new location, playing a game of cat and mouse with him.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He had found the square. He should have found John. It had been all too easy. The fountain had been the weak link, and Mycroft's text about John's S.O.S. had confirmed the spot. Moriarty was his arch-enemy in his mind, formidable and mischievous, worthy of his attention. Especially after this turn of events.

They had moved quickly, too quickly for anyone to get too far or without a lot of noise. John should have been safe by then. As well as Mrs. Hudson.

"What are you playing at?" Sherlock asked the darkness. He was thrilled at the game, he couldn't help it, of course, he loved a good game, but he wanted to win, and Moriarty didn't play by any rules. The live camera feed Mycroft had provided been perfectly clear. John Watson and Mrs. Hudson had been here not long ago. They had missed them by a few spare minutes at the most.

He heard Lestrade groan behind him as he caught up with him at last, racing against time and false hopes to reach the fountain.

"They were here," Lestrade We saw them! I-. Sherlock?"

The detective was standing on the fountain, looking down at the pink mobile, his expression a mixture of frustration and awe. He stepped off the fountain and began to walk back towards the cars. As he passed Lestrade he shoved the mobile in his hands.

"They still are," Sherlock replied, his voice thick with anger, biting off the words as he began to run.

Lestrade peered at the small screen. It was the video from the security camera. John was still there in the street, his hands shoved uncomfortably in his pockets. Same place, same time, exactly the same time, yet John was there and not there at the same minute. The bastard was playing mind tricks with them.

Lestrade rubbed at his cheek. This was going to be a long night.


	7. Mrs. Hudson

But it wasn't just a long night. It was 37 hours and 44 minutes now, night again, the growing distance between finding Doctor John Watson alive or finding him in pieces or worse, not at all, gnawed at the back of Lestrade's mind. Meanwhile, Sherlock ran Scotland Yard ragged, barking things that sounded like orders to the lot of them, Sally, even Anderson. Lestrade let him, knowing that if he did not Sherlock would find another more dangerous way for Lestrade to lose control and eventually lose his job because of what Sherlock does.

Lestrade tried to steady him, tried to make him slow down, damn it, but his prodding and offers of tea and even cigarettes (Sherlock's hands had twitched at that) didn't do any good. Lestrade decided to lock Sherlock in his office, where he could text others in peace, protected behind thick glass from unlikely but angry death threats Sally and Anderson, and even Molly threw his way. Sherlock took to pacing after 2 hours in front of Lestrade's computer watching the live feed of John standing on the fountain, the other fountain as Sherlock called it, though it confused Lestrade as to why it was so important that John be in one place and yet be in another.  
"He's bored." Sherlock said, in answer to Lestrade's silent question.

"Okay, and that helps us how?"

"He's bored," Sherlock repeated, "that means he's more dangerous than before. He's moving faster. He's trying harder to be unpredictable. He's trying. "

"Have you figured out the feed?"

"Not yet." He sighed, pivoting on his foot. Lestrade didn't the carpet could take much more hard pacing.

"What have you…deduced then?"

Sherlock didn't even grin at Lestrade's try to humor Sherlock. Sherlock didn't even pause. It must be worse than Lestrade would imagine. Under the unforgiving lights, he looked unbelievable pale, not unlike wax paper, dark circles around his eyes threatening to engulf him in sleep and haunted dreams.

"He's trying to play a game with us. Testing us."

"No Sherlock," said Lestrade quietly.

This alone made Sherlock stop. He looked up, a wary look in his eye.

"He's testing you. He's playing cat and mouse with you. This is about you and him and John."

"And Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock's voice nearly broke with that.

Lestrade blinked. Somehow Mrs. Hudson had gotten lost in his mental list of people to save tonight. He shied away from Sherlock's unwavering gaze and looked through the glass at the rest of his worn out crew.

"She's just a casualty to him. Bait."

"Astute observation," he said without inflection.

"Sherlock—" Lestrade began, but he was rudely cut off by Anderson's sudden need to flail in front of the glass door, rapping on it like a buffoon.

Sherlock actually stopped pacing and opened it a fraction to let the sound of Anderson's voice pass through.

"What?"

Anderson took a deep breath, his face haggard with from little sleep through the glass, his hair disheveled but his expression was jubilant, relieved even.

"We found her," he said, a small but worried smile crawled onto his face. He didn't have to explain who. They know who it was.

Lestrade was sure Sherlock stopped breathing, his mouth breathlessly forming the question where, the looks in his eyes dangerous, his mind obviously racing from point to point, like a stargazer connecting the constellations.

"She's alive," Anderson reassured him, "She's downstairs."

Sherlock throw open the door and Anderson nearly had to duck underneath the detective's arm to avoid being shoved out of his way.

Once again, Sherlock ran. But this time, with a little hope, sterile air filling his lungs as he made his way to the first floor.

Mrs. Hudson was a hollow old woman when Sherlock found her with Molly Hooper and several officers. She was slumped against Molly's shoulder while Molly held a wet towel to her forehead. Mrs. Hudson tried to sit up on the cold steel slab a little straighter as Sherlock made his way into the morgue. She didn't want him to see her pain. It did not help. He blinked a few times, slowly, taking in the scene. He stopped just inside the door, faltering.

A black body bag lay in the corner of the room, disregarded for now while the officers were taking samples from underneath Mrs. Hudson's fingernails.

"Hospital's been called, Sherlock. They're on their way." It was Molly addressing him. Sherlock only half heard her, as he walked towards Mrs. Hudson. The officers wisely took their samples out of the room, Lestrade needlessly telling them to clear the room for the emergency personnel.

Mrs. Hudson's hair, wiry and carefully placed, was matted and turned awry, like a bad horror film. Her hands were shaking for all Molly's efforts and Sherlock stooped taking them up and gently squeezed them. There was blood the back of her left hand from where the zipper of the body bag had caught her old skin and twisted it in the perpetrator's haste to drop her off.

Sherlock needed only a glance at her face to know they had left her in the black body bag in the shelf, locked away like the murdered and the suicides, as a bloody message.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said softly, not daring to let himself say anymore. He bit the inside of his lip and let Mrs. Hudson softly babble random things at him as she tried not to let herself droop from shock or exhaustion.

"Sherlock," she whispered hoarsely, and he leaned closer to hear her. "Sherlock, my dear." She looked up at him, her eyes searching, as if she could not believe he was there.

"Yes, I'm here, Mrs. Hudson. You'll be fine." He gave her what could have been a smile but it looked more like a grimace.

"Sherlock" she said again, not quite hearing him, her eyes glazing over as the shock finally took hold. "You found me."

If Lestrade hadn't been watching him intently he would have missed it; a tiny falter in Sherlock's smile. In it, he saw the breath of Sherlock's disappointment in himself, his failure. Of course, he hadn't found her. Anderson and Molly had found her, in a wild adrenaline filled moment when they thought they heard noises in the morgue, coming from the dead. The great Sherlock Holmes, outwitted by simpletons.

"Yes," he said to her, his mouth a thin line.

The ambulance showed moments later, and the medical personnel rushed inside and whisked Mrs. Hudson away, Sherlock not far behind and Lestrade running in his shadow.

As they put Mrs. Hudson gingerly into the back of the ambulance, Sherlock asked calmly if he could ride in the back. Mrs. Hudson weakly seconded that opinion, much to Sherlock's relief, that she needed him still.

Sherlock got into the back of the van, minus his coat and scarf, forgotten Lestrade's office, and took up holding Mrs. Hudson's hand once more. He looked wretched, but relieved.

Mrs. Hudson was safe.

But Lestrade show the glint in his eye as he glanced back at Scotland Yard. He saw Sherlock mouth something at him, and he couldn't figure out what he had said before the doors closed and the ambulance drove off.

Lestrade didn't have to wait long for an explanation. He got a text from him as soon as he arrived back in his office. The message was simple.

Find Him. –SH

Lestrade didn't have to ask who Sherlock meant.


	8. Jim

Sherlock stayed with Mrs. Hudson for the night, although Lestrade had come to fetch him around five that morning but he stayed until Mrs. Hudson awoke, a little pale but the morphine was working and her leg cleaned and set on the mend. She looked pleased to see her unruly tenant hunched over the chair with his long legs tucked underneath his chin and his overcoat wrapped around him like a blanket, even if it meant that things had been worse off than they had seemed.

He didn't really move until she coaxed him into at least having a cup of tea as she eat breakfast rather ravenously after what she had gone through. Sherlock sipped his tea, looking exhausted but happy according to Mrs. Hudson, who tried to get a smile out of him with a few pokes of her finger. He failed miserably to appease her, one hand wrapped tightly around his cup and the other holding the pink phone steady on the armrest of his chair.

"Is that what he's been calling on?" asked Mrs. Hudson, setting aside her tray of half-eaten breakfast and huddling under the sheets a bit more.

Sherlock shifted in his seat and tried to rub out the crick in his neck that had formed an hour ago.

"Yes it is," he said quietly, hoping Mrs. Hudson would want to talk about other things for a change; how her nieces were or how bad the coffee was here. Between his exhaustion and the growing, sickening knot in his stomach that twisted every time he thought about John, he hoped Mrs. Hudson would not want to think about what had occurred until at least he got some breakfast in his system.

But Mrs. Hudson would not leave it alone. Even though he wished for a moment's reprieve from the puzzle before him, he smiled inwardly at Mrs. Hudson's resilience. She always had been nosy, persistent.  
He tucked his legs underneath his chin and asked her quietly what she could remember. She had asked for it, and the clock was still running. Mrs. Hudson shifted in the bed to get more underneath the sheets.

"I only remember bits and pieces, Sherlock."

Sherlock had thought as much, the shock and frame of mind would have shut out any important details useful to him, but anything would be better than nothing. He listened as she told him in fragments and in phrases, only she would ever come up with. He didn't learn any new data, no useful tidbit. Mrs. Hudson had never really been conscious enough or aware of anything other than the fact it was cold, Moriarty had been close, and John had probably saved her life. Sherlock tried smiling at the thought of John being brave, but it didn't help the ballooning twist of the knife in his gut.

Moriarty enjoyed twisting good intentions, enjoyed making the brave beg.

What Sherlock was not expecting, not really, though he had it with him at all times as a reminder of whose hands John was in, the pink mobile to ring. It made him and Mrs. Hudson jump.

He got up quietly and left Mrs. Hudson's room before answering it on the last ring. He couldn't help but feel relieved when he heard John's voice, broken, raspy, speaking on the other end. It felt like a bloody lifetime.

"Sherlock?"

"John," Sherlock responded, trying to sound as casual and unexhausted as he could be.

"Sherlock, it's good to hear you again. Holding up well?"

John's voice was coming in pants, a shuddering rasp. Not good at all. But Sherlock didn't have enough time to decipher where he had been hurt, tortured. He clenched and unclenched his fist as he resisted the urge to punch a hole in it, instead holding himself with it steady against the white wall.

"Just get to the point, Moriarty."

"It's been two days," said Moriarty in John's voice, seeming himself not to believe it had only been two days since this whole bloody affair started.

"Yes." The weariness seeped into his tone. Damn. He couldn't break down now. Not even a centimeter. Moriarty would notice.

"And you still haven't found him."

"But I will."

"But I will." It was meant to be a mocking reply but in John's voice, it was a small whisper, a prayer.

Sherlock bit his lip in frustration.

"My dear," John continued, stilted, "but you would have found him and me now if ever. Now it's too late."

Sherlock took a deep breath, the anxious knot of dread in his gut bursting into flames as he saw how right Moriarty was. He hadn't found John. He had only an inkling of an idea where he was. And there were hundreds if not thousands of places John could be now, since he sent back Mrs. Hudson in the body bag. She had only been a warning. John could be in the body bag next. Dead and cold. Bloody and broken. But even more than that, Sherlock could not let him win. Surrendering, to anything, to anything at all, had never been easy: the needs of his stupid body, his brother's demands, Mrs. Hudson's gentle chides and murmuring to clean up his experiments. This was different. Surrendering to his self-proclaimed arch-enemy?

Death would be better. And John was still alive. Moriarty must have found him fascinating as Sherlock did, but in the way a dog trained to stand on its hind legs would be fascinating to him.

"I'll take any challenge, any case," he said, desperately. He just needed a few more hours. A little more time. He must be close for Moriarty to call him. To threaten him now.

"No, no, Sherlock. The time for that has passed now."

He heard John's breath suddenly hitch, his exhale a hiss.

Then a sound, that seemed to echo as if John was in a cave. A hard snap. John cried out, a cry of pain ringing in his ears. Sherlock wished bitterly he did not know exactly what bone Moriarty had just broken.

John's voice got quieter and farther away. Sherlock thought he heard him whimper pitifully. Moriarty was probably twisting his broken arm. Milking the sounds and grimaces of pain.

"Stop it, just stop it," he shouted into the receiver, getting strange looks from the passersby but he didn't care. "What do you want? You want me? I'll come to you."

There was a sudden silence. A muffled shuffling.

"Well Hello, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock didn't realize he had been holding his breath. After all these games, all this power play, Moriarty was speaking to him in his real voice. And it all became so obvious. Jim, the gay boyfriend.  
Jim from the office. Jim who had given him his number. Smiling, awkward Jim. Criminal Mastermind, his nemesis.

Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock felt like he could laugh if it would have helped, but it didn't.

Moriarty had gotten to Molly too. He'd probably dropped off Mrs. Hudson himself. The thought curled underneath his lungs and gave a good squeeze. He had been right there. Close enough to touch. Twice, at least. Close enough to watch Sherlock dance.

"Jim," said Sherlock, his head suddenly, miraculously blank.

Moriarty hummed in his ear, pleased.

"You remembered."

"Yes."

"Good. About Johnny boy here." Sherlock heard John's heavy breathing in the background now. He was controlling himself. Being brave.

"He's such a good pet, Sherlock," Moriarty continued. "A little loyal soldier. And you have become so attached haven't you? It would be a shame for you not see him burn. You should come down, it's just down the street. My street." Sherlock swore he could hear Moriarty smirk as he said that.

"Where is it?" said Sherlock. What it really meant was, I give in, I give up-just let me rest.

His immediate answer was John yelling in the background, intelligible.

"I'll text it to you. But if you'll excuse me, I must attend your pet, he's being… naughty."

Moriarty hung up.

Sherlock went back into Mrs. Hudson's room and sat back down, not really knowing what else to do but wait. He let Mrs. Hudson hold his hand as he sat there, staring the mobile screen, wishing he could take back all the jabs and insults he had said to John because John was ten times the man he would ever be.


	9. Light

John didn't think he had been so tired in his life. The cold did not bother him anymore, not after days of imprisonment on this street, in this square. His shoulders now slumped with the parka still blinking away like some bizarre one light Charlie Brown Christmas tree. And now of course, that tiny pulsing bulb on the jacket was his only source of light. Moriarty had turned off the lights. Moriarty left him there after he had had managed to yank the phone away from him, and threw it into the fountain before the snipers could fire more useless ammunition onto the cobblestones. They still weren't allowed to kill him. For now.

On the edge of complete exhaustion, John sat down with his back to the fountain and closed his eyes. The fountain's mountainous roar echoed off the fake shop doors and windows and became a sort of lullaby, one that he did not welcome. There was nothing he could do, not really, and his body was finally giving out after days of nearly no sleep. He could try to find his way to the edge of the street, find the door to the warehouse but he was sure the snipers, or worse, the bomb strapped to his chest would find him sooner than he could cope with. Instead, he pulled the hood up on the parka, and let his head fall back on the fountain's edge. Whatever last adrenaline rush Moriarty had planned for him, he would need whatever strength he could find. He was thankful that even Moriarty needed a quick and honest reprieve, and contained him in the darkness. It was surprisingly soothing after staring at the unforgiving lights for so long his head held up and back over Moriarty's shoulder, the madman's growls in his left ear. He could only hope his dreams would be so kind.

His mind wandered into a land beyond the darkness into a world of fire, desert, and ash. He could taste on his tongue. Like a hunk of burnt fish, he could taste those days in Afghanistan, turbans and dust dancing in his dream. Then he tasted blood, a terrible sweet tang on the roof of his mouth and his eyes shot open. He blinked several times, his eyes adjusting quickly to the tiny bit of blue light the bomb wires gave.

A figure stood over him, a little taller and leaner than expected, but his eyes, which John could but barely see in the dim light, were still the same. Sherlock was here now and everything would be alright. He would hope. He had to. John held on to that burst of hope and did not let go. He tried to stand, but his legs would not budge. And Sherlock was annoyingly quiet, and calmer than John would have thought he would have been. Where was his anger, his fire? The insults, the little jabs at his wound in his shoulder? Where was Scotland Yard, Lestrade?

Something was wrong.

"Sherlock?" he whispered, suddenly afraid.

Sherlock didn't answer, but slumped forward, his eyes mysteriously blank. Then it occurred to John that the detective was falling, and just in time caught him, in a strange sort of bear hug before he cracked his skull on the fountain's edge.

Sherlock didn't move as John held in his arms, awkwardly, the bomb vest suddenly much too tight and John much too tired, his fingers fumbling over Sherlock's scarf to find his pulse at his neck.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he felt one, steady for now.

He licked his lips and tried to rouse him.

"Sherlock?"

Nothing.

He slipped his hands underneath the other man's arms and hefted him up the fountain for support.

Then he felt a slight wetness underneath his fingers. His breath hitched. John didn't need to look to know what that was. His fingers found the bullet wound in under ten seconds. It wasn't deep, only a flesh wound that had missed the major stuff, but without attention, Sherlock would continue bleeding, and it would only get colder, beside this fountain.

John was about to grab Sherlock's scarf to staunch the blood, when he noticed the shifting red dots on his hands and on Sherlock's forehead.

One more adrenaline rush coming up, he thought.

He let his hands fall into his lap as one by one as the lights of Moriarty's London sparked and glowed once more.


	10. Trigger

John didn't trust himself enough to look down at Sherlock. Not yet. Instead, he shut his eyes and waited for the blinding sting of the lights to dissipate. How many bulbs did it take to light this monstrosity? Underneath the cold and the sound of his heartbeat, the low hum of electricity eerily echoed off the beams of metal of the warehouse roof.

John opened his eyes and half-expected Moriarty to appear out of thin air, waltzing through hidden doors, thunder circling his wrists, lightning sparking off the tips of his fingers.

He realized then this whole game's purpose. This whole thing was meant to terrify him. The warehouse, the fountain, Mrs. Hudson, the bomb. All of it to signified Moriarty's power. His control. John had seen men like him, in the army. Men who could make others fear for their lives with a single word, a whisper. The trigger to breaking other souls to their will.

And John knew that Moriarty already knew how to break him. He had seen it in his face, his eyes glinting with some morbid jest. He just had not done it yet.

John's pulse quickened and he finally opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to adjust to the lights. The street was still eerily quiet. Moriarty wasn't here yet, but the snipers were all on alert. Red dots skittered across his chest and his hands, and John could swear there must have been at least 20 of them.

He swallowed back his fear, and turned to look at Sherlock. Sherlock looked almost comically, slumped over like a mannequin, his chin locked into his shoulder, gaunt and whitewashed from the blazing lights. Blood trickled and pooled out of his wound, however, stemmed any other thoughts John might have had, other than staunching the blood and killing James Moriarty.

Right as if on cue, John felt something tap his shoulder. He flinched and he swore he heard Moriarty smile down at him. He didn't look up at him. That would only give Moriarty a wonderful sense of satisfaction, to look down at his prey, his puppets, to have him looking up at him. John was after all, he realized, kneeling. He wondered if this is where a tape for a ransom would finally make an appearance, like a normal organized hostage situation.

"Ready to lose, John?"

John was getting tired of that damned voice. That damned smirk.

He clenched his teeth.

"Not. Ever," he replied.

"Ah." Moriarty swiveled on his heels and took a few more practiced steps so that he was in front of the two men.

He glanced at Sherlock and cocked his head; his expression almost unreadable except for his triumphant smirk hadn't disappeared yet. John could not help but lean imperceptibly to the right, he couldn't help but want to protect the detective.

"It's too late for that," Moriarty said quietly. "He'll be dead in a few hours, not from that"—Moriarty pointed to Sherlock's wound—"that's simple, easy to fix, you should have done better, but he'll be dead all the same."

"And why's that?" asked John.

"Because you'll kill him."

John let out a little laugh, this was hysterical it really was.

"No, I won't."

"Yes, you will John." Moriarty said with a sigh, as if he were correcting a student on some easy maths problem.

"No, I won't." John said again. His words were a binding promise, a bond to hold to through the darkness that would surely come.

"Look at your hands John."

John obeyed, reluctantly. The silence roared in his ears while he waited patiently for the criminal to explain to him why exactly what was so important about his hands.

Then he smelt it. Gunpowder.

The scent was on his hands, not Moriarty's. It had to be some sort of trick. It had to. But there it was, the faint scent of gunpowder residue on his hands. He slumped against the fountain, his mouth slightly open in disbelief and despair.

"You already shot him once, John. You'll do it again," Moriarty whispered.


	11. Doctors

John Watson sat stock still, trying desperately to make his brainwork faster, harder to pull in clues like Sherlock has, to somehow find a trap door in Moriarty's monolith.

He can see blood slowly pooling at his knees, beginning to stain his trousers. Panic rose in his chest. He couldn't have shot Sherlock, he wouldn't, yet something in Moriarty's Cheshire cat smirk directed at him and Sherlock said he might never know if Moriarty was a liar or simply loved telling him the truth.

The worst part was John couldn't remember what had happened just before the lights turned on, his mind exhausted, fuzzy, not sure if he could remember or should remember those few now precious moments of how Sherlock came to be beside him, unconscious and bloody/

"Shall I tell you what happened?" Asked Moriarty slowly as if savoring this moment.

Because John Watson, the doctor who knew every symptom of shell shock every cure or remedy for the flu, could not remember. Because John Watson, the soldier, the man who was sent back home from Afghanistan because he did too much, couldn't do anything. Because John Watson, had to trust Jim Moriarty, in return for a grain of sanity even if all he said was a lie. There was ever all the gunpowder on his hands.

John hated himself for relenting, but he nodded silently, allowing himself to relax, because this was the moment that Sherlock loved best in a case. A trait he shared with Moriarty, and one that might just keep him and Sherlock alive, if John listened well enough. Moriarty thought him curiously interesting he could twist that to his advantage. Sherlock could pretend to be normal, if he wished. John had seen him surprise people with his crocodile tears and his ordinary request for the time and cigarettes.

John took a deep breath. If Sherlock could be normal, average, than surely he could act extraordinary.  
After all, it was him who Moriarty had kidnapped and experimented with, it was him who wrote a blog that had made Moriarty a fan, it was him who Moriarty found beyond average.

John bowed his head a moment and made himself smile. Not a very noticeable one, but one he thought might convey a slight interest. It might have put Moriarty off just little, if he was lucky. He was done being played. Time to play a game of his own. Time to see if Moriarty would ever live up to his promises of explosions and destruction.

Moriarty's slight twitch, a showing of dissatisfaction at his little smile told him that he might not and that gave John hope.

He gave Moriarty his best doctor-like expression, one he used when telling patients particularly bad news, the ones his patients always hated and he always tried not use and rewarded with a dark look of indignation. This was going to fun, even if it was the last bit of fun he ever had.

"Go ahead, _Jim_ " he said, encouragingly.

Moriarty blinked slowly, his expression dark and dangerous clearly not at all happy at being addressed as Jim, and at being mocked.

John had hit a nerve. _Fantastic_.

"I'm listening." John said quietly.

After all, that was what he did best. He folded his arms across his chest, against the cold, tried to look as comfortable and defiant as possible, and waited for the doctor to begin.


	12. Madmen

Moriarty stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

"Things have been different for you since coming back from the war," he said.

John didn't answer, only hummed in the back of his throat and nodded. He was exhausted, his shoulder hurt, and he couldn't feel his feet anymore. He didn't care about what Moriarty was going to say to him, he was mapping out a game plan to get Sherlock out of here.

"You've been seeing a therapist?"

John decided looking at Moriarty, straight in the eye would be a good answer.

"Not anymore."

"Well," said Moriarty, "I don't think Mycroft Holmes"—he sniggered at the name—"did a very good job of covering it up."

John could feel the blood leaving his face, the only reaction his body would give. He could hear murder in Moriarty's tone. He could not have, no he wouldn't. She had been just his therapist, nothing more. She had scribbled notes that John could read upside down, she had made him start the blog.

She had been just another resource for Moriarty to use.

"Lots of awful dreams in those reports, John."

Why yes, the dreams had been awful: ash and soot and turbans in a backwards universe.

"I could help you with those you know."

John scoffed.

"Really?" he asked, gesturing to himself and Sherlock. "And how would a madman help an ex-medic with PTSD overcome night terrors and hallucinations."

Moriarty shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets again.

"By helping him become a madman."

He looked so pleased with himself as John then gave him a dark but bewildered look.

"That is what this is all about John. I mean, you're already halfway there."

Moriarty aimed an elbow at Sherlock and his bloody unconscious state.

John pursed his lips.

"No. " he said quietly. "This is all about him."

Moriarty's eyebrows raised.

"Is it?"

John gritted his teeth, wishing he could just strangle him and be done with it.

"I wouldn't be here if wasn't for Sherlock."

"Wouldn't you?"

"What-

"What makes you think you wouldn't be without him? I think you would."

"All you care about is him. You're his fan."

"You shot him didn't you?"

John let out a huffy breath. He couldn't lose it, not now.

"You don't need him John. Never have. He's just a freakish bit of entertainment to you and me."

"No. Don't ever put me in the same category as you."

"Even if it were to save your life?"

" I don't want to saved."

"Desperate not to be the victim then."

There was a long slow silence where neither of them talked, like they were waiting for a note of music to fade.

"What do you teach those kids in school?" John asked suddenly. He wondered what this man could find interesting enough and obscure enough not cause a ruckus in academia.

"You're veering away from the subject John," Moriarty's voice low and guttural.

John cocked his head, an idea forming.

"I know that tone," he said slowly, "are you using your professor voice on me, Jim?"

Moriarty blinked several times, as if trying to decide how he should cut John into pieces before detonating the bomb. Moriarty didn't like first names.

"So am I special?" asked John.

"I wouldn't say you're particularly special," said Moriarty, "but you could be. You could be quite unique. You could work with me, John. You are quite the cold killer."

"No, not really," said John, uneasily.

"No really," Moriarty said swiftly, "you killed that cabby and went to dinner after wards. I've known only a few serial killers who move that quickly back into their normal lives."

"Well Sherlock—" John began, but Moriarty cut him off.

"Yes, yes, Sherlock. He is quite a bad flatmate isn't he. And now look at the mess he's made."

John sighed. "Are we going to sit here all night?"

"You can't be bored now, John. The fun's only started."

"Yes, sadistic torture and killings and bombs, I got that yes but—"

John didn't feel like asking, he just figured Moriarty knew how it was eating at him, watching his friend slowly dying in front of him.

There was a soft noise beside him, a bit of scuffling. Sherlock was awake.

"John?"


	13. Brothers

"Don't try to move," John said softly.

"Alright," said Sherlock, totally disregarding the doctor's shrewd advice.

Sherlock sounded a bit delirious, with that sort of slight compliancy and obedience. No logical retorts or snide remarks that he usually made within 6 seconds of waking on regular every day mornings, guilt thickened in John's stomach as he saw Sherlock's face fully since those days before all this. Sherlock looked awful, pale beyond anything he would call healthy or normal, Sherlock would need a hospital soon or he might just lose consciousness again and never come back out of it.

"Look at him John," said Moriarty and John was looking at him and it made it all worse. Moriarty continued after a moment: "You don't need him. You don't need his help. He's just a set of new tricks for you. A way to get your thrills. You could do so much better than this freak of a man."

"But you're his fan," replied John remembering what Sally Donovan had said, what the Chinese woman had said, what the art museum director had said. "The best fans always see their obsessions for what they are in the end-he waved a hand dramatically at Sherlock—"freak."

"And you aren't?" John said, feeling fury rising in him like the tide.

Moriarty's face screwed up into a doggish snarl.

"Please," he said dangerously, "do not call me a fan. I appreciate his intellect and his stamina thus far but I will kill him in the end. Do I sound like a fan to you?"

"No," John said flatly.

"John?"

John tried not to flinch at the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"Yes, Sherlock?" He asked Sherlock keeping eye contact with Moriarty though.

"Oh good, you're responding, you didn't respond…before," said Sherlock, slurring his words a bit in his exhaustion.

"Before what?" Already Sherlock was losing him, how could that be? Sherlock was the one shot not him.

"You were in trance, John," Moriarty answered before Sherlock could get the words out. "When you shot him, it was quite interesting. Sherlock looked quite miffed when you shot him." He cocked his head as if savouring the memory.

John snapped to attention in an instant.

"Trance? But- You hypnotized me?"

Moriarty blinked at him, and shrugged.

"Cheap trick I know, but it's quite fun knowing it works. The classroom gets so boring sometimes and you wonder if you could just make them remember the history of aesthetics once and awhile. And you've done it before with that therapist so I thought, why not."

John glanced at Sherlock and his face only confirmed what Moriarty said to be true.

"I knew you had done it before in your sessions and those seemed relatively productive, so I thought I could try that. It's quite fun. Your eyes got a bit dead though, I theorized they wouldn't or at least you would show some form of conscious thought but really it was like watching a sleep walker. You do make for a good test subject for an experiment, John."

"I didn't know you were a scientist, Jim," John replied quietly, distracted by the fact his hands were actually shaking now and all he could see was the ash on his hands, from that hallucination or whatever that had been.

He heard Moriarty let out a noise sounding halfway between a growl and a note of displeasure.

"Still confused about the ash?" asked Moriarty, after a beat, his voice surprisingly light.

"That was you too," John said slowly, fitting the pieces together in his mind.

"Yes," said Moriarty, his grin too quick and too decided.

John buried his hands in the parka despite his cramped position. John sighed; at least he knew he wasn't going completely mad. He felt Sherlock's head rest on his shoulder, his dark curls awry, mumbling random facts and observations about the nature of the fake cobblestones underneath their feet where his blood was gathering, slipping back into unconsciousness, his wounds considerably worse than John had hoped. Sherlock wasn't in any state to help John.

And John didn't see any way out of it. The snipers were still on the roof—no, wait.

John found himself glancing involuntarily in the direction of the snipers and their red target zones, but he didn't see any now. Moriarty had called them off. That only meant one thing.

He glanced back Moriarty. He looked radiant, triumphant, watching Sherlock fading before him like a man who had just trumped the queen in a giant cosmic game of chess.

Jim Moriarty had used them, on themselves, on each other and now he was going to win.

"You don't need Sherlock, you know" John heard him saying, a little disembodied now in the back of his mind.

"Not really. Look at you, ex-soldier, doctor. You could do so much more than be his dogsbody, his lacky. Don't you want to be something more? He doesn't need you."

"Are you offering me something?" asked John, disgusted.

"Just a chance to get out of this alive and a healthy dose of adrenaline," said Moriarty. "You wouldn't have any more nightmares, and you wouldn't remember things. You would be conscious free. And much better off I must say."

John imagined that sort of life for moment, working for Jim Moriarty, not remembering his bad deeds, not having to worry, not having that guilt. He knew he shouldn't, he knew he couldn't possibly—and yet, it stung and hit its mark within him, and he so desperately wanted that bit of peace and quiet and stability, no matter where it came from. Heaven knows he would never get it with Sherlock, not really, if he was honest, already morally ambiguous and erratic to the bone. Perhaps he might be able to let it all go if he went with Moriarty.

He might just able to convince Moriarty to let Sherlock Holmes live the night, if he left with him. That would be the brave thing to do: to see the morning, alive and whole as the madman he was, a man who killed cabbies because Sherlock was too stupid to put the pill down, too busy trying to find that next step that logical maze of his.

John Watson inhaled and took in all the cold air he could, letting it fill him up trying to get up the courage to let it all go. He could it feel it on his tongue. The icy numbness that made him forget that he ever shot a man named Sherlock Holmes, that he—

Then his hand wrapped around something in the bottom his pocket, forgotten. That must have been a part of the act Moriarty put on to make John forget he was carrying a beautiful British Army Browning L9A1in his pocket, a delicious piece of cowardice.

John exhaled, and as he did he slowly stood up, trying to ignore the screaming pain in his leg as Moriarty looked on at him in confusion, his brow furrowed.

"He may not need me, but he needs a doctor," John said, pulling his hands and the L9A1 out of his pockets. He glanced down at Sherlock, who had found a tiny piece of consciousness, enough to give him a look that resembled reassurance and a tiny smile, blinking in dots and dashes, the signal: Go.

John didn't hesitate, fearing if he lingered one more moment he might just back down and let Moriarty have him. He took one solid step towards Jim Moriarty and fired, aiming and catching his left shoulder.

Moriarty give him one tiny look of surprise, almost imperceptible before he crumpled. To John's instant relief, there was no instantaneous death, no explosions. Just a man clutching his shoulder in pain, a lot of pain, as to the doctor's satisfaction.

Then there was noises, sounds that John didn't like and the bomb vest on his chest was getting heavy all of the sudden, and there were fingers, grabbing at him, a familiar face saying to him areyoualright areyoualright over and over, mumbling, as his hearing went as he found himself lightheaded . There was a mixture of light and darkness and smoke like some chemical experiment, torchlights bouncing off the buildings and a roar from Moriarty. Then the bomb vest was suddenly off his chest and Sherlock was dunking him in the fountain and John was wondering absentmindedly as his vision went what all the fuss was about.

After

"I hate water. I hate swimming," John found himself saying.

Out of the corner of John's eye, Sherlock smirked at him behind his empty cup, his knees tucked under his chin, the orange shock blanket he had stolen from John tucked around the sharp edges of his shoulders.

"Still thinking about the fountain?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes," said John, lowering himself gingerly into his favorite chair in the den, closer to the fireplace of 221b.

"I was a bit delusional."

"Really? You kept calling for your skull."

"Perhaps..but—"

"But?"

Sherlock gestured at the general area of his wound, healing very slowly under the strict supervision of Dr. John Watson.

"I had a reason John."

"Maybe, now stop waving that arm about."

"Oh mother hen, you're as bad as Mycroft."

But Sherlock winced when he tried desperately to wave it anyway and John saw it and made a face at him.

"It bloody hurts," said Sherlock darkly.

"And I wouldn't know?" asked John.

Sherlock sniffed unappreciatively, his knees sliding down to the floor. Clearly, he did not take to being shot and housebound well.

They were quiet for a moment. They had been quiet a lot since "The Fountain" as they liked to call it or "The Mouse Trap Case" as Scotland Yard liked to call it. John still couldn't sleep properly, not even after a few weeks and Sherlock didn't seem as settled as he was before. It was the unsaid burning in the air around them, the untold nightmares. Mrs. Hudson was doing quite well, or at least that was what Sherlock let on to John in his daily morning reports.

Sherlock was looking at the papers now, at the pink phone that they couldn't bear getting rid off or handing to evidence. Moriarty had escaped after all.

"I would have killed us, you know," Sherlock said to him suddenly, solemn, his eyes glinting.

John had given up wondering why he said things like that and just asked, prodding.

"We would have died if you hadn't shot me," Sherlock said, clearly thinking John didn't get it, but he knew. He knew Moriarty would have driven him in corner with only himself as the competition or something like that, as the cabbie driver had done and then he would have shot them, or killed John first, or tortured them further with something else.

"I trusted you and you came through."

"Yeah," John said softly.

"John, thank you," Sherlock said in a rush.

"Don't mention it," John said easily, though the words bite on his tongue.

Sherlock winced, but not from his wound.

"No really," he started again, staring at John intently, "I think that is the first time anyone saved my life."

John met his gaze, suddenly feeling less tired.

"Well, it was my pleasure saving you Sherlock."

"Yes," said Sherlock, suddenly looking a little embarrassed, if one could call it that, which John did.

There was more staring absentmindedly, but this time it was met with a shared feeling of comfort, one that stemmed from the hope that Moriarty knew, at last, after those months of preparation and the cases leading up to the Fountain that John was loyal, trustworthy, and Sherlock Holmes' friend. And that he knew now that John would not sway.

"Is there any tea?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, sure I'll get you some," John said, getting up, "move or I will call that brother of yours."

Sherlock did as he was told and listened to John wrestle with the contains of the fridge, bereft of heads or fingers or eyes for the time being but still full of chemicals and bottles of wine.

"There's still no milk or beans, or eggs," John said from the doorway of the kitchen.

"Did you eat the last banana?" Sherlock asked.

John looked a little crestfallen.

"Yes, sorry."

"No, I'll go out and get some things." John turned to pick up his coat off the table.

"Better just ask mrs. Hudson for bit of milk," said Sherlock, "the corner shop is closed now."

John paused a moment while putting on his jacket. How does Sherlock always know what time it is?

"No it's fine," he said, "I'll go to the other market."

"John."

John turned around ready for some sort clever resort and was taken aback as he noticed a change in Sherlock's expression. The look of guilt and anger that had lingered around the corners of his mouth and in his eyes was gone now, as if his confession that he was really grateful for what John Watson had done had made him feel better, lighter. Whatever Moriarty had left lingering in Sherlock's mind was gone, replaced by something else, a calm, a peace John doesn't think he had ever seen before. He looked better, more like the man John had wished as a flatmate, as friend before. But Sherlock was more than better.

John decided to complain about his leg just then, to make Sherlock feel better about them still not having any food worth eating and still not wanting him to leave the house while he was housebound.

"Damn your leg, John. I need my tea," was Sherlock's retort.

"Pop in with Mrs. Hudson for moment then?" John asked with a sigh already heading that direction.

"Yes, lets."

Mrs. Hudson didn't serve them beans, but she did serve them tea. John would remember later that she smirked at them behind the milk carton and the eggs that when asked what she thought of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson then she would have said they were the truest friends she would ever meet.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Comments are greatly appreciated.


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